


i know i know i know

by kitseybarbours



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Coping, F/F, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24452239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: After her first Section 31, Daisy helps Basira adjust.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 24
Kudos: 128





	i know i know i know

**Author's Note:**

> Set in August 2011, after the events described in MAG43. Title from the [Tegan and Sara song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OFB9W4u-yNc).

* * *

It’s late August, and Basira’s hand still burns.

She’s in the bathroom at the station, changing the bandages: the wound weeps through the gauze by mid-morning and it makes her queasy to look at it. She rinses it under cool water, meeting her own gaze in the mirror and steadfastly not looking down. As she’s patting it dry, wincing where the rough paper towel meets the tender skin, she hears the bathroom door swing open and shut, and turns around. Daisy Tonner has just come in, empty coffee mug in hand.

Basira doesn’t know Daisy, per se, but she knows _of_ her: everyone does. She’s a formidable presence, with her shock of white-blond hair, inscrutable grey eyes, and the vibrant and intricate sleeve tattoo that encircles her leanly muscled left arm from shoulder to wrist. She dresses all in black when not in uniform, and something about the way she moves is pantherlike, fluid and dangerous. Up close she’s not that tall, but she’s imposing all the same; it’s no wonder the bullpen falls silent whenever she stalks through it to speak with their CO. _That and the Section 31, that is._

Most importantly: she might not be tall, but _God,_ she’s gorgeous. Basira has always liked girls who scare her.

Daisy doesn’t give her a second glance as she heads to the next sink to rinse out her mug. Basira carries on with her bandaging, applying a generous dose of antiseptic ointment and then unravelling the fresh gauze, awkwardly balancing the roll between her body and her hand as she re-wraps the wound. But the roll of gauze slips and bounces to the floor as she’s making to fasten the bandage; Basira curses under her breath.

It rolls to a stop at Daisy’s combat-booted foot. She bends down and picks it up; Basira holds her hand out for it, a thank-you on her lips. But to her surprise, Daisy comes over to her and takes her injured hand in her own. She finishes wrapping the bandage, much more tightly and neatly than Basira has ever managed herself. Her calloused fingers are strong and cool. Basira is acutely aware of their every brush against her uninjured skin.

‘Thanks,’ Basira says, when Daisy tucks in the bandage’s end and gives the dressing a light, solemn pat: _There._ ‘You’re, uh—you’re good at that.’

‘Years of practice,’ says Daisy. She speaks with a Welsh lilt that Basira has heard before, usually from behind the closed doors of meetings to which she, as a much junior officer, is not privy. ‘You’re PC Hussain, aren’t you? You’ve just been sectioned.’

Basira winces. ‘Basira. And…yes.’

‘Basira.’ Daisy repeats it carefully, looking at her to make sure she’s got the pronunciation right. The way it rolls off her tongue is, well, not technically _perfect,_ but so beautiful that Basira wants to hear it again. ‘You were with Spencer, at that fire in Clapham last week. I take it that’s how this happened?’

‘Yeah. It was—spooky.’ Basira shakes her head, aware of how childish the word sounds, and how inadequate besides. ‘His name was Diego Molina. I don’t know…I don’t know how he did it.’

‘Yeah. I get it.’ Daisy surveys her face.

Basira isn’t sure if the conversation is over, if Daisy is waiting for her to say something; she starts to speak, to excuse herself, growing suddenly anxious, but then Daisy says, ‘Why don’t you come over to mine tonight?’

Her voice is calm but brooks no argument. ‘We’ll have a drink.’ Her eyes flick to Basira’s hijab and she amends: ‘Alcoholic or not. You can ask me whatever you like.’

‘About Section—’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay.’ Basira feels like the wind has been punched out of her and she is, somehow, grateful for it. ‘That would be—great. Brilliant. Yeah.’

‘I’ll text you my address.’ Daisy looks her over for a moment more, her gaze so cool Basira can practically feel it on her skin. She forgets to ask where Daisy got her number. And then Daisy picks up her coffee mug and disappears, the tread of her combat boots growing fainter and fainter down the corridor.

Basira has been away from her desk for far too long. In a daze she double-checks the bandage—it’s perfect, it’s so much better than she could have done herself, she swears the burn has stopped hurting—and picks up the roll of gauze. She sits back down in front of her monitor and waits for the words on the screen to make sense.

* * *

‘And at first, you know, it looked like open-and-shut arson, he came out of the burning house untouched, it’s not difficult to put two and two together…But then he’s banging on about _cleansing fire_ and fucking Sumerian demons—I had to Google that, _Asag,_ had you ever heard of him? Them? It?’

Basira takes a deep swig of her elderflower cordial and soda, a surprisingly delicate concoction to have come out of Daisy Tonner’s fridge. Daisy is watching her in absolute silence; she hasn’t said a word, but Basira knows she’s listening. It feels good to rave with no interruption, to let the madness she’s witnessed spill out of her: testament. She keeps going.

‘I cuffed him, and—and that’s how this happened,’ she says, raising her burned hand. ‘The cuffs got _hot._ Red-hot. Just from…touching his skin. It was terrifying. It wasn’t—human.’ She shakes her head.

‘And then after I’d done that—I almost dropped them, but I couldn’t let him get away—Molina leant over and whispered something in Spencer’s ear. I don’t know what he said, the fire brigade had arrived by then and the sirens and the hoses were going crazy, but Spencer got this _look_ on his face, like—like nothing I’d ever seen. His eyes just glazed over, and his mouth went all slack. He looked like…like a doll or something. Passive. Possessed. And there was this weird book that Molina had with him, bound in red leather—it’s stupid, but I swear it was the exact colour of blood. Too bright, somehow. I couldn’t stop looking at it. There was just something…wrong about it. Spencer seized it as evidence; I was glad he handled it, ‘cause I didn’t want to touch it. I just wanted to get out of there.’ She swallows the rising dread that she’s been keeping down all week. ‘He hasn’t been in to work since.’

Daisy tsks. ‘That’s…probably bad news.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I told the CO, but he only reminded me that I’d just been sectioned and should keep my mouth shut. Wouldn’t do for such a _young_ officer to go around stirring up trouble; Spencer’s well senior and he can take of himself.’ Basira scoffs. ‘I get the sense by _young_ he also meant _brown.’_ She drains her drink and sets it down with a clink. ‘He’s probably right—Spencer’s probably fine—but…’ Her eyes land on her bandaged hand. She pictures the wound beneath, red, bubbling flesh, and she shudders.

‘And what about you?’ Daisy asks, following Basira’s gaze. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Oh—yeah. It’s healing fine, I think. I’m using that cream with silver in and I’ve got another doctor’s appointment on Tuesday—it doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore, and I’m sleeping better than I was—’

‘Not your hand,’ Daisy says. _‘You._ How have you…been?’

‘Not good.’ It’s the first time she’s admitted it, although the sleepless nights and the sense of being watched she’s carried with her since she signed the Section 31 have made it difficult to deny. ‘I…’ She sighs. ‘I have an older brother, and normally I’d talk to him about all this—he’s a security guard, he can kinda sympathise with the shit I see on the job—the _normal_ shit, that is. But this…I haven’t told him anything. I mean, I can’t, obviously—I _legally_ can’t—but I also just…can’t.’

Asif’s feet are firmly planted in the real world: Basira winces just to think of the look on his face if she started telling him about the way the cuffs had burned in her hands the second they touched Diego Molina’s skin. He would tell her it was the fire changing the temperature of the air, or the guy running a fever, or worse, that she was imagining things. But the burn on her hand is far from imaginary. Having to explain it, to justify it, to him just feels impossible.

 _God, that’s wretched_. She’s still new to the Met and hasn’t ever been great at making friends. Asif has always been her confidant, the one she can go to when she needs to blow off some steam or have a laugh or just stay up way too late playing _The Last of Us_ with someone. If she can’t tell _him_ about this, then that leaves…no one. Basira’s throat tightens.

‘It’s hard,’ she says, hating the way her voice comes out. ‘God, this sectioned shit is _hard._ It’s only been a week and I already feel…marked. It’s not like people really chatted to me at lunchtime _before_ or anything, but now it’s like they go out of their way to avoid me. They all _know.’_ She looks at Daisy. ‘Was it like that for you, at first?’

Daisy gives a humourless laugh. ‘It still is, nine years on.’

‘Nine _years.’_ Basira lets out a long, defeated breath. Somehow it hasn’t yet sunk in that this is it, this is her career now. ‘God, I don’t know if I can face that.’

What Daisy does then is the last thing Basira expects. She stands from her chair and kneels in front of Basira, her lithe form folding with grace. She takes Basira’s hand, the unbandaged one, in her own, and she looks her in the eyes, her gaze clear and intent.

‘I understand,’ Daisy says. ‘I know exactly how you feel.’

Basira’s breath hitches. She looks down, into Daisy’s fathomless grey gaze, and suddenly feels calmer than she has all week. She’s not a pariah. She’s not invisible. Daisy is touching her. Daisy can see her.

She tries to say something, to thank her, _something,_ but the words die on her lips. There are freckles on Daisy’s nose, faint and delicate, nearly invisible even at the height of summer. Basira makes a soft, helpless sound and does the only thing she can.

Daisy rises on her knees and meets her halfway. The kiss is gentle, asking for permission. Daisy’s lips are as cool as her hands and they feel like a balm. Basira takes her face between her hands, not thinking, kissing her.

They break apart. Daisy sits back. ‘Come to bed,’ she says softly. Basira follows her.

* * *

Night has fallen; the window is half-open, and sheer curtains move in the warm breeze like ghosts. Daisy’s bed is low to the ground, dove-grey sheets, neatly made. She shuts the door behind them and takes Basira in her arms.

Later, much later, Basira will learn that Daisy is a killer. It makes sense, by then, of course; even now, there’s something about her, a sharpened edge glinting in the right light. But tonight, if Daisy had told her, Basira would not have believed her.

She is so gentle. She asks whispered consent to untie Basira’s hijab, and steps back with a sheepish laugh when its folds confound her; Basira takes over, deft with practice even using only one hand. When she unwinds her bun and lets her thick, wild curls spring free, Daisy lifts a hand, reverent, and strokes the hair back from her face.

‘My God, you’re beautiful,’ she says, and Basira kisses her.

They reach the bed. Basira turns them so she can straddle Daisy, pushing her back against the pillows; there is a gleam in Daisy’s eye, an invitation. Her strong hands hold Basira by the waist as they kiss, deep and fevered, lips and teeth. This is exactly what Basira needed, to get lost in something, in someone. She wonders how Daisy knew: maybe it was the same for her, nine years ago. Maybe it still is.

Sure, it’s probably not an _ideal_ strategy, falling into bed with, essentially, a stranger—not to mention a superior officer—rather than actually dealing with what’s happened to her, talking to a psychic or a therapist or _somebody._ But it feels damn good in the moment, and that’s about as far ahead as Basira wants to think right now. She grinds her hips into Daisy’s and cries out in fierce pleasure as Daisy sinks her teeth into her bottom lip.

‘Clothes,’ Basira gasps, and makes to unbutton her shirt, but her bandaged hand is clumsy; her flatmate had had to help her button it this morning.

‘Here,’ says Daisy, and does it for her. ‘Vest, too?’

‘Vest, too. And my bra.’

Daisy strips her, careful not to jostle her hand, running her fingers over each new expanse of exposed skin. She reaches up and guides one heavy breast to her mouth, taking its nipple between her teeth. Basira moans at the rush of sensation, pleasure flooding through her. When Daisy lets go her breast Basira says, breathless, ‘Your turn.’

Smiling sidelong, Daisy pulls her black T-shirt over her head, revealing a black sports bra and a pale, muscled stomach. Basira dips her head to kiss her navel as Daisy pulls off her bra. Her breasts are small, high, pink-nippled, and Basira takes them in her mouth one after the other, electrified by Daisy’s moans as she sucks and bites. ‘I left marks,’ she murmurs. ‘You bruise so easily.’

‘I don’t mind.’ Daisy pulls her down into a kiss.

Basira is wet between her legs; she is desperate to be undressed, to feel Daisy’s cool skin against hers, all over. Daisy seems to intuit this, as perceptive as she has been since she picked up the roll of gauze this morning and took Basira’s hand in hers. _She understands._

Deftly she turns them so Basira is beneath her. She shimmies out of her tight black jeans—she’s wearing boy-short knickers underneath, black, as expected, which she strips off too—and touches the fly of Basira’s trousers, questioning. Basira nods, and lifts her hips to wriggle free of them, kicking them to the side. She wore knickers trimmed with lace today and is suddenly glad of it. They don’t last long: Daisy peels them down over her hips, and then Basira is naked for her, fully exposed.

Daisy straddles her thighs, her gaze taking her in from face to navel and then farther down. Basira never shaves her bikini line—it’s no use, it grows back twice as fast when she tries—and Daisy runs a light hand over her thick, curling bush. ‘I like this,’ she says. ‘It’s not fussy.’

Basira laughs, shivering with pleasure where Daisy touches her. ‘Have you met me?’

‘Touché,’ Daisy murmurs. She moves down the bed and bends to kiss her cunt, her tongue darting between its folds and making Basira moan. ‘You’re so wet already,’ she says, her voice almost a purr. ‘What do you want?’

She returns her attention to Basira’s clit, making her writhe as she struggles to form an answer. ‘I like this,’ she gasps. ‘This is good.’ But she needs more: it’s going to take something rougher, harder, to begin to sear the memory of Diego Molina from her mind. ‘Something inside me,’ she says. ‘I want that.’

‘Fingers or more?’

A shiver of pleasure grips her. ‘More.’

‘Give me a minute.’ Daisy reaches beneath the bed and rummages for something. In the dim light, Basira can see a scar on her back, a faded starburst exploding between her shoulder-blades. She wonders what happened; she wants to reach out, to touch it; she says nothing.

‘Is this okay?’ Daisy asks, emerging. She holds a leather harness in one hand and a dildo in the other: an elegant black thing, neither hyper-realistic nor totally alien-looking. Of course Daisy has good taste in toys. Basira’s heart skips a beat.

_‘Yes.’_

Daisy smiles. ‘Lie back.’

Basira does. She watches as Daisy slides the harness on, tightens it over her slim hips, and secures the dildo. She fills her palm with lube from the bottle on the nightstand and slicks up; Basira reaches between her own legs and feels the wet warmth there, already enough. Daisy kneels over her. Basira draws up her knees and helps Daisy to guide herself inside, gasping when the dildo’s head touches her. She shifts her hips, taking Daisy deeper, looking up at her: ‘That’s good,’ Basira murmurs.

In answer Daisy kisses her. She braces herself on the headboard and begins to fuck Basira slowly, each roll of her hips deliberate and controlled. Basira moans, her fingers moving on her clit, finding a rhythm that complements Daisy’s movements. She hasn’t been touched for so long; every brush of Daisy’s skin against hers is electric. She is so beautiful in the moonlight, her proud face like some forgotten goddess of the hunt. Basira reaches for her and their mouths meet, gasping, hungry.

This is what Basira needed. That Daisy knew this—that Daisy sensed this—Already she is coming back to life. Already she feels more real than she has since she first saw Molina’s face. She’s never been one for dirty talk, but _Fuck me,_ she wants to say, _fuck me until I forget all of this, until I forget who I am, until nothing matters anymore. Fuck me until I’m safe again. Fuck me until it’s only you and me._

She feels her orgasm swelling, swift and powerful, waiting to overtake her. ‘I’m close,’ she pants, and Daisy asks her, ‘Stop?’

‘No,’ says Basira. ‘More.’

She comes with a long, wordless cry. Pleasure burns through her: cleansing fire.

Daisy, watching her, touches herself and comes with a low, sweet moan. Basira feels it inside her. When she’s finished she collapses onto Basira’s chest and kisses her neck, her jaw, her collarbones, her sharp teeth nipping the delicate skin. The marks will be covered by her scarf tomorrow and she almost regrets it.

Finally their breathing slows. Basira can still feel Daisy’s heart against her chest, pounding like a dog’s in pursuit. She stretches lithely and pulls out of her—Basira gasps softly, overstimulated—and sets the toy and harness aside. She lies back and opens her arms; Basira goes to her, cradling her injured hand against her chest.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Better. So much better.’ She looks up at Daisy, her pale face in the dark. ‘Thank you.’

A kiss, light and cool. ‘I’m glad it helped.’

As the aftershocks fade, Basira’s mind and body returning to their resting state, reality begins to sink in. She has just slept with her superior, on a work night, no less, and she _still_ hasn’t heard from Spencer. ‘I should go,’ she says reluctantly, looking over Daisy’s shoulder to the bedside clock: 12:39 a.m. ‘Should call Spencer and see if he plans on showing his face tomorrow.’

Even as she says it, she knows it’s useless. She has a sneaking suspicion she won’t be seeing his face again, tomorrow or ever. Daisy seems to guess:

‘Should you? Really?’

‘I…’ Basira falls back onto the pillow. ‘All right. Someone else can deal with that. I’ve had enough.’ She sighs: ‘It’s late, though. I should still be getting home.’

‘Mm.’ Daisy traces circles on her shoulder with her short, neat nails. ‘Or you could stay.’

‘Or I could stay.’ She looks at her. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I think,’ Daisy says lightly, ‘we’ll be seeing a fair bit more of each other, now that you’ve joined the 31 Club. It wouldn’t hurt to…get to know one another a little better.’ She strokes Basira’s hair. ‘What do you say to that, PC Hussain?’

Already Basira can think of so many things she wants to know—about Daisy’s tattoo, when she got it, what it means; about the scar on her back, which, now that Basira thinks of it, looked less like a starburst and more a flower, blooming. But she’s tired: the heaviness of sleep is creeping up on her, as it hasn’t done all week. She welcomes it with a relief so strong she could weep.

‘Basira,’ Basira murmurs, her eyes already drifting shut. ‘Say it again.’

‘Basira,’ Daisy repeats, softness creeping into her voice. ‘Basira, Basira, Basira.’

‘Daisy.’ She curls into her, as close as she can get, and realises that her hand hasn’t bothered her for hours now. At the last moment, a phantom flash, irrational fear: what if he finds her here? Her eyes open. ‘You’ll stay with me?’

‘I’m right here. Get some sleep, all right? You need it.’

‘All right.’

In the morning, she will hear the news: that John Spencer had been found in the evidence locker after hours with a Zippo lighter in his hand, attempting to burn the red-bound book they had confiscated from Molina. That he had been suspended immediately on suspicion of tampering with evidence. That, as the summer sun rose, a 999 call to his flat had found him dead in his bathtub with burns covering his whole body. The water in the tub was still steaming. The official story will involve a kettle, somehow, but the details are thin enough to make Basira—and everyone else who hears it—suspicious. The true story will never come out.

But that is tomorrow. Tonight, John Spencer is still alive, if only for a few hours more. Tonight the red-bound book—marked on its frontispiece with a name with which Basira is not yet familiar, but will one day come to be—is still intact. It has not yet wrought its last act of desolation. _Tomorrow._

Tonight, Basira sleeps, and her dreams are free of fire.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [saintmontague](twitter.com/saintmontague) on Twitter.


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